


suffocated by the radiated air around us

by katagawa



Series: [cliff&larry] [1]
Category: Doom Patrol (Comics), Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, M/M, but it does get better, i'm like dropping hints that larry's autistic, on spiderman we're getting you a bf lawrence, this is pretty heavy on angst :/
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-12-30 14:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18317081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katagawa/pseuds/katagawa
Summary: a few moments in larry's life, for better or worse.(eventually, it does get better.)





	suffocated by the radiated air around us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheriffbucky (pluckybucky)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluckybucky/gifts).



> TW for internalised homophobia and brief religious imagery!

i.  
He remembers the crash. Re-lives it everyday.  
  
It was infinite pain and suspension of being all at once; the negative energy feeding off his viscera, and yet sustaining his body that should by all accounts be dead. A chemical marriage of the sulphur clinging to his skin and the melting steel under his feet.

Most of all, though, he remembers the _noise_ . A cacophony of static buzzing around him, a single voice amongst the others that he can distinguish so clearly _(he’s alive! get a medic! larry--)_ .  
The cling of medical instruments. An alarm. His own panicked breathing.

[ ~~ivelivedablackblackdreamofsilenceforsolong~~ ~~  
~~ ~~imawakenowwideawake~~ ]

Larry wakes up alone.

ii.

Gardening became a habit for Larry about 13 years into living at the manor.  
  
It was Rita’s suggestion a decade ago, but it took him quite a long time to still the fear of harming a living being enough to consider it.  
He loses himself in books on horticulture, plant symbolism and botany; pours over countless pages of Latin names and their meanings. He memorises every single one of them. He has the time.  
Even though Rita usually prefers to be the one speaking, she's more than happy to listen to Larry talking for hours about the flowers he's going to grow. The meanings behind them, the importance of arranging them in just the right way.  
  
(Jane, however, isn't as happy to listen, and neither are most of the alters. He very quickly learned about her strong dislike of men.)  
  
Marigolds are his favourite.  
  
Coincidentally, the very same flowers he’s tending to when Cliff comes up to him shortly after the Nurnheim fiasco.  
Heavy footsteps signal his arrival, metal against ground. He’s careful not to step onto any plants, though grass doesn't get spared. He leaves a wide arc around Larry’s garden.  
  
“Hey, Trainor. Rita’s worried about you. Since you, you know, locked yourself up for four days and only now got out.” Cliff pauses, and Larry stares at the flowers in his own hands. “And so am I.”

Larry brushes the dirt off his flowerpot. A rare ceramic one, pastel pinks and blues dancing around its edges. He can feel the sun through his bandages. It’d be harsher if not for his always present coat acting as a barrier between his skin and the outside world.  
  
“Cliff? Hold on a moment, I just need to repot my marigolds.”

He doesn't, actually, he just needs to do something with his hands. Distract himself.

Something that's not Keeg is tapping a staccato into his ribcage. He’s certain it's because of Cliff’s presence.  
(-youselfishfuckingidiot-)  
A wave of self-hatred comes and goes. It never goes away for too long.  
The sound of metal shifting, making its place in the world. Cliff is leaning against a fence encasing the garden.

Larry doesn't like looking at the fence. It reminds him of being trapped in the manor as a price for being a freak of nature.

Larry finally turns around. He never does repot the marigolds, and Cliff doesn’t comment on it. The afternoon sunlight behind Cliff illuminates him, and for a brief moment he looks like one of those Catholic saints preserved in stained glass. Soft oranges blend with gold and bronze. Larry might have appreciated it a bit more if not for the suffocating pressure in his lungs.

He tries to begin a sentence. He can’t. Instead, he shoves the flowerpot aside and takes a deep breath.   
He can’t.

Larry freezes.

Cliff shifts as if to move closer to him, then stops himself. “Hey? Larry? You definitely don't seem alright to me now.” His voice is tinted with panic.

Larry wonders why he’s so worried. It’s not like he deserves any of it, not after--

He realised he sunk to the ground then, shards of a broken flowerpot his companion. Lungs too full, too empty, black began to seep at the edges of his vision.

“ _Shit!_ Shit, Larry, what do I do? What do you want me to do?” Cliff starts to pace around, hands twitching. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , should I get someone? Rita? She'd know what to- I’m not… I’m not good at this, I don’t know what to do, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-”

In the haze of drowning, Larry manages to choke out, “Don’t.” He’s not sure which question he’s answering. He’s not sure if he heard a question. All he really knows is falling down, down, and he knows no one can catch him at the bottom of the well because he _doesn’t deserve it why is Cliff still here?_

Larry takes a shuddering breath. Focuses on the bird chirping some distance away. Scratchy, high. A blackbird, maybe.  
Carefully, slowly, Cliff shrinks down next to him. “Larry?” He hesitates. (He’s been hesitating with a lot after Paraguay. Hesitant to go near anyone.) The sun climbs higher in the sky. “Is… is it okay if I touch you?”

Larry takes a few more breaths. Presses his hands against the cold concrete. “Please.”

Cliff hovers his hands above Larry’s shoulders. Not seeing any objection after a few seconds, he tugs Larry into himself until they’re in something like a hug. Cliff places a hand on his back. They’re silent for a long while. The blackbird’s cry pierces the air every so often.

“I’m tired.” Larry sinks further into his embrace. “I’m so tired.”

“It’s okay,” says Cliff.

Or it will be, one day. Step by step. They have the time.

 

iii.

There are days when Larry wakes up and the first thing he sees is Starbursts on his nightstand. A soft crackle leaves an echo behind, and he sighs. He knows who left them. Maybe not so much why.  
Ever since he saw the negative spirit leave his body decades ago in Ant Farm, an acrid anxiety, _so so sharp_ , solidified itself as a core part of his being. It was always there, of course, but it took him until then to fully realise the extent of his own fears.

Fear was always a constant in Larry’s life. Keeg’s presence definitely didn’t help that. The smell of chemicals and burnt flesh still comes back to him after particular nightmares and trails behind him for the rest of the day.

Larry remembers the Starbursts next to him. If anything, they were plain evidence that Keeg was very much wanted to extend an olive branch. Though, for a being who repeatedly saved his and others’ lives, maybe he should have done it himself a long time ago.

He looks down. “You’re having it a bit rough too, aren’t you?”

With a prototype of understanding, Larry presses a hand against his chest. A crackle answers. It doesn’t hurt today.

 

iv.

[white noise  
nothing nothing there’s nothingnothingnothing but white noise  
static  
static the static is bright  
_whycantifeelanything--_

 

everything

moves

 

so

 

slow  
  
lungs torn apart and remade matter restitched atoms strung together one by one

  
_welcome to your new base of operations, captain trainor._ ]

 

v.

It’s almost funny how in any other context, the amount of time he spends before a mirror could be mistaken for narcissism.

Every day it’s the same routine. And every day it ends with his own reflection glaring right back at him. Only rarely can he recognise himself in the mirror.

Larry memorises the scar tissue, each bone outlined behind his skin, or the faint hints of cartilage. He examines the thing looking back, and thinks that he fully deserved it.

  


(+ vi. )  
“I used to love dancing,” Cliff says one day. Some Walter Egan song plays on the radio to accompany his wistful comment.

It’s late evening, a pale sunset having just gone by. Neither of them particularly want to get up though. Larry draws further into his coat as minutes pass and the air loses its hints of sunlight.  
Something shifts inside of Larry. Nudges him.

He glances at Cliff sitting next to him. “Well then,” he starts. Hands clutch at coat a bit tighter. “Why don’t you anymore?”

Cliff stares at him. “Robot body,” he enunciates very clearly.

“I was never good at dancing myself.” The telltale skip of his heart. “We’re probably even. So let’s dance.”

Cliff tilts his head. Blinks. “...You would dance with this rusted old tin can?”

He shrugs. “Unless you have any objections.” Larry stops his hand from clutching the fur on his coat _too_ tightly, just in case it tears. The time it takes Cliff to respond does nothing to calm his nerves.

“Well then, why the fuck not. Let’s dance.”

True to Larry’s word, he wasn’t good at dancing - but then again, neither was Cliff now. They grab each other’s hands, but after that it descended into a controlled chaos.

The thing about Cliff is, he’s very warm for a robot. Or perhaps that's exactly why, his internal machinations never truly resting. So even with colder wind seeping in, Larry’s surrounded by a familiar warmth.  
Which would we wonderful, except they were entirely uncoordinated and kept knocking into one another. Larry wonders how he doesn't have a headache yet from bumping against Cliff’s limbs.

“We’re so fucking bad at this, Lar.”

Larry leans his head against Cliff’s chest and lets out a muffled snort. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”

The music fades out, leaving only Larry’s quiet humming. They settle on swaying to it, and for those few minutes the outside world doesn't matter.

And, Larry thinks, maybe there can be a better ending for them after all.

  


**Author's Note:**

> quite a few things here are inspired by stuff said by @frogforest over on tumblr! bucky stop making everyone emo challenge


End file.
